Glimpses
by Api Adore
Summary: Seven glimpses at Dean's world. A glimpse of the things he thinks, of the things he sees, of the things he feels. Take a walk in his shoes.


**A/N: **I wrote this months ago, but am publishing it now because I really, really, _really _want to help Supernatural become most popular in the tv category on this site, beating Buffy. I CAN JUST TASTE THE VICTORY ALREADY. So, this is my contribution :)

These drabbles aren't in any specific order, nor do they follow any timeline. Words were chosen at random, if I remember correctly.

(And, uh, Supernatural's not mine. Wish it was, though. There'd be more hugging.)

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**_LUNAR_**

He doesn't know why, he doesn't understand, but yet he always enjoys werewolf cases more than any other. The whole thing just excites him, makes him eager to fire that fatal silver bullet into the creature that's neither human nor wolf but something in between. His father tells him that each hunter favours one hunt more than the other – his is demons, he reveals – and that maybe Dean's future lies in hunting werewolves. Sam theorises that what Dean likes about it is the transformation, the hidden life, the secret of being something _other_. Dean thinks he just likes werewolves, just likes the whole thing.

_**SADISTIC**_

Sometimes as he flicks that match into the grave, watches the bones burst into orange flames, he feels a rush of pleasure at the sight. He likes the way the spirit explodes into nothing and he likes watching its final moments of life crackle away before him. Sam once called him sadistic, that he likes the job too much. Dean doesn't know if that's true or not, because it's spot–on sometimes. He likes to watch as evil feels pain, and in his opinion that's the most normal thing about himself.

_**OUTSIDER**_

Dean doesn't understand why education is so important, considering he's never going to have a real job or need any kind of certificate to say he's smart. Popping the monsters doesn't require maths or grammar or any of the things his teachers tell him about. So if he doesn't need school, he tells his father every once in a while, why go? All he does is sit there, drawing guns in the margins of his books and reminiscing back to those hunts where he was a brush from death, because those are the memories that make him feel bigger. The other kids call him weird, call him different. On his school report card his teacher writes: _Dean is an outsider, and we're worried._

_**PULSATE**_

He was raised in the car with monsters and guns and knives and he thinks that maybe other people would call that wrong. He doesn't care really, because he doesn't believe it. His father was doing the best he could and it wasn't as if Dean came out twisted or anything. In the end he came out alright. He believed that. There were times, though, that all that kept him going was the music his father played. The Led Zeppelin, the AC/DC, the Black Sabbath, the Metallica. The beat of the music would vibrate through him, soothing whatever he was thinking and stressing about, and he'd be okay again. The beat of the music kept him sane and kept him on the right path. He wouldn't know how to explain it or describe it to someone else. To him it was simple. The pulsating chords just kept him sane.

_**RECOGNISE**_

It only happened once during a poltergeist gig in California but he still considered that a one in a million chance. Her name was Georgia Smith and he didn't remember her but she recognised him, told him that they'd gone to the same high school together and that they had once upon a time made out in the broom closet between the mops and cleaning sprays. She was pretty but she was married – had two kids. 'What happened?' she asked him as he packed his things away, case closed. 'How'd you end up like this?' Dean just shrugged and smiled because she wouldn't understand if he told her he'd always been the way he was, always been a hunter. Despite all of that, he still felt the sting of envy as her son wrapped his arms around her legs and smiled into her knees. He'd never have that.

_**SATAN**_

Dean once dragged Sam to see a movie when they were both still young. He couldn't remember what it was called or who starred in it, but he remembered that it was a comedy about Hell. Satan wore glasses, had a funny moustache. The souls in Hell all sang funny songs about how boring it was to be tortured again and again for all eternity, and by the end of the movie both Sam and Dean were in hysterical laughter. Years later Dean discovered for himself that Hell was no laughing matter, that Satan wasn't a comedian. Sometimes he would lie in bed when the rest of the world was sleeping and he'd try to remember the parts of the movie that he'd laughed at, wondering if he'd still be able to chuckle. Could someone so broken and shattered and spoiled and utterly _ruined_ be able to find humour in what had ruined them?

_**UNHAPPY**_

Dean couldn't remember going to little league, playing football, attending kindergarten. He didn't have any memories of the few Mothers Days he was there for and what recollections he had of Christmas were all tainted with the looming ghost of hunting. For him there was only hunting, only the dark. He always thought he was happy with where he was – his father and brother were all he needed – but whenever he saw a family together – a _normal_ family – he felt that little stab of hot pain. He didn't realise it then, wouldn't realise it for a long time, but he wasn't happy at all. Dean just couldn't remember what happiness was.

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**Toss me a review?**

**Are you as excited about overtaking Buffy as I am?**


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